Ling was suddenly jolted awake. A shadow was looming over him from above.
“Wha’z’appening?”
“You fainted,” Shang answered. Ling could feel a rough hand test his forehead.
Gasping, Ling tried to sit up, but his head felt too heavy. He looked around him. A tent
surrounded them, blocking them from the sun that sizzled above.
“We’ve stopped for the day,” Shang explained.
Startled, Ling opened his mouth to apologize.
Shang interrupted, “Stay here, and don’t move.” With that, Shang opened the flap of the tent
and stepped out.
Closing his eyes, Ling pursed his lips. Shang had to hate him. Not only did Ling slow Shang
down, he also slowed the whole company down. Ling would bet anything that Shang was going to
talk to the other traders about bringing him back to Baotou to his uncle.
He’d bet anything.
Shang made his way to his camel.
Ling would need some water, Shang thought, as he untied the water skin from the back of his
camel. His camel was grazing contentedly beside a patch of desert onions.
Desert onions. Shaking his head, Shang moved back to his tent. He was positive that Ling had
had enough desert onions for the rest of his life.
But if it weren’t for the onions, Shang would never have met Ling at all. Thinking back, the
corner of Shang’s mouth lifted up into a wistful smile.
It began with bandits. Shang and his company were attacked during their journey to Baotou.
Thankfully, the traders managed to fight off the bandits. Unfortunately, Shang’s camel had taken
to a hard fall when the robbers slashed the skin of its knee open.
A sandstorm was bearing down on everyone, and they had to get to Baotou before it hit.
The injury slowed Shang down, and it wasn’t long before there was a noticeable distance
between Shang and the other traders.
By the time Shang and his camel arrived at the town gates of Baotou, the town was
completely empty. All the people had taken shelter in the comfort of their homes, and the traders
were nowhere in sight.
With the sandstorm close at hand, Shang began banging on the doors of the houses, asking
for a place to stay. No one opened the door for him.
Shang had given up upon the futile search and had soon begun preparing for the sandstorm to
arrive. Until the sound of desperate footfalls reached his ears.
Spinning around, Shang watched as a small, forlorn young boy, no older than eight, ran down
the dirt road.
In his arms, the kid held a bucket filled with desert onions. His whole body was covered in
sand, and he was wheezing loudly as he ran. The onions jotted in the basket.
Shang remembered himself watching as the kid stumbled on a rock and pitched forward onto
* * *
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